


Psycho Boy

by Zetaori



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-13
Updated: 2011-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:48:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zetaori/pseuds/Zetaori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"After Fight Club, you sleep and you feel real." (The Fight Club AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psycho Boy

**Author's Note:**

> written for this inception_kink [prompt](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/9742.html?thread=19834382#t19834382)
> 
> If you want to read/comment on LJ, you can find the story [here](http://zetaori.livejournal.com/6914.html).

With Mr. Eames' calloused but soft, warm hand in the small of my back, I look down into 1000 feet of crisp clear dark air.

Mr. Eames, I say, my voice drowned out by the deafening roaring of the wind up here. That's crazy. You know it's crazy.

"Darling," Mr. Eames whispers against my ear. "We really won't die."

It would take half a second to turn around, another second to bring my knee up and grind it into Mr. Eames' groin. About half a minute to run towards the staircase, a few minutes down, five hours to be in another state. But I know there's nowhere to hide.

"Trust me," Mr. Eames says and his hand tightens, his fingers digging into the torn material of my shirt.

I am Arthur's confused, scared to death, sudden spike of lust.

"This isn't really death," Mr. Eames says. "We won't grow old."

Below us, the busy stupid space monkeys of society scramble around. With blaring sirens, fire engine after fire engine arrives. Miniature firemen open a security net.

Oh Ariadne, God bless you.

Me and Ariadne, it isn't about love as in caring. It's about sweet little Ariadne as in you have no idea.

Mr. Eames is waiting for the kick, but I know it will never come. I remember everything.

It's just one tiny push at my back, one little step, and I fly.

\---

You wake up at some airport. You don't know how you got here, and you can't remember where you're heading. Repeat.

Every takeoff and landing, I pray for a crash. A kick. Something to wake me up.

Insomnia, that means everything is just a copy of a copy of a copy.

I wake up on board of a plane, and this is how I meet Mr. Eames.

I look down at the briefcase at my feet, and then I look over and there's the exact same briefcase. This stranger next to me travels with a PASIV device.

I look up into soft eyes, green and blue and gray, the skin crinkled into a smile.

I hear myself saying, So you're in dream business too, huh?

"Obviously."

What do you do?

"Why, so you can pretend like you're interested?"

The sound escaping my throat is undignified, embarrassing and desperate. Listen, I say, I think we've started off on the wrong foot.

He laughs. "I'm Mr. Eames," he says.

Huh. That's weird.

I shake his hand, and it's surprisingly strong and dry.

"So what are you doing then?" he says, still clasping my hand. I tug it free.

I'm in the dream business, I say. I'm sure you know what I mean.

"Of course," he says, his eyes lightening up when he leans back. "I bet you're a point man."

I am. I am the best.

"How is it working out for you?"

What?

"Being the best?"

Great.

"Keep it up then."

The plane hits an air pocket and I forget to imagine how the loss of cabinet pressure would suck all the oxygen out of my lungs.

"Excuse me," he says, grabs his suitcase and makes his way to the aisle. "Now, a question of etiquette. As I pass, do I give you the ass or the crotch?"  
   
I don't get the chance to choose. There's just this strong, firm, round ass pressed into my face for a second and then he's gone, and he doesn't return for the rest of the flight.

On the little table in front of me, there's a tiny white card.

I pick it up. It says "Mr. Eames. Forger." On the back, a phone number.

\---

You wake up at the airport, and there's Dom and Mal, arm in arm, smiling, and a little baby sleeping in a buggy.

The job they have, they need a forger.

Ask me about coincidences.

I call Mr. Eames, because there aren't that many forgers around, and even less good ones. It's worth a try, I say, and punch in the digits.

The sound of a phone not getting picked up is hopelessness and failure and disappointment.

The weird thing is, as soon as I hang up, my phone starts to ring.

Hello?

There's no answer on the other side, just noises. Someone eating peanuts.

Is this Mr. Eames? We met on the plane. I haven't introduced myself, but you gave me your card. You know, the best. Is this you?

"Yeah, it's me."

Good, listen, the card says you're a forger, and we need a forger, so we might have a job to offer.

"Who's we?"

Me and two other persons. The team.

"Just three people?" There is a soft, condescending laugh, and then the sound of another handful of nuts getting crashed between teeth.

You're interested or not?

"Sure, love."

I have a very bad feeling about this.

\---

The job gets canceled at the last minute.

It happened before. The client changes his mind, thinks about his money, is a fucking coward.  
We have everything in place, the mark under constant surveillance and no one has had any natural sleep for a whole week. And then the client just bails out.

I am not even angry. I am the warm little center that the life of this world crowds around.

I want to go home, take a bath in my expensive tub, doze off over a glass of red wine, but instead I find myself in a noisy bar. I'm pretty sure Dom and Mal were here before, but they're definitely gone now.

There's the sound of billiard balls clicking, two huge glasses of beer in front of us, and Mr. Eames slumps in the chair likes he owns it.

Which he doesn't, because I happen to know the owner is a Japanese guy named Saito.

Mr. Eames says, "I say never be complete. I say stop being perfect. Let the chips fall where they may."

I nod and pretend to understand because he's drunk and I'm just so tired.

\---

"I want you to hit me as hard as you can."

What?

"I want you. To hit me. As hard. As you can."

We are standing outside of the bar, on our way back to the hotels, but the parking lot is huge and dark and for some reason, we're hanging around.

Mr. Eames leans over, his fists raised, and I can see the muscles playing under the stretched material of his too-small shirt.

We've both had some training. Military training. You can see that immediately in a person. We've shot people, in reality and in dreams. But this is different.

This is completely unnecessary, without rules, and dangerous.

"How much can you know about yourself when you've never been in a fight?" Mr. Eames says.

This is so fucking stupid.

The very first completely private punch in my whole life is somewhat misplaced, aiming for the cheekbone and ending up at the ear.

Mr. Eames topples over, holding his hand over his ear. "Fuck!"

I'm sorry, I say. Jesus, I'm sorry.

And then Mr. Eames manages to keep upright long enough to place one blow in my stomach. I bend over, coughing, stumbling against a parking old car, afraid of becoming sick.

I hear the throbbing beat of blood in my ears.

Hit me again.

"No, you hit me."

We're clinging at each other, too close to do real damage but it still hurts. It's against all rules and irresponsible and it feels amazing. We're just slamming fists everywhere we can, bruising knuckles, leaving marks, catching breath and then we start all over again.

When we're both hurting and bleeding and fucked, we share a bottle of beer and a cigarette.

We should do this again some time.

The world has never felt so real before.

This night, I fall asleep before my head hits the pillow. Babies don't sleep that well.

\---

I meet Ariadne in the waiting room of a doctor. It's quite ironic, because she's there to get sleeping pills and I'm there to get a nasty open cut over my eyebrow stitched.

She's pretending to have depression, neurotic anxieties, but I know she hasn't. She's faking.

I can see it in her eyes. She's had her first few shared dreams, and now she's confused and wants the little pills for the easy way out.

Looking at her, at the way she glances around the room, her fingers scrambling at the totem hidden in her pocket, I give her a bloody grin, and her eyes go wide.

Look at me. I am the Zen master. I am enlightened. See my scars? You should try it some time.

\---

The next time I meet Mr. Eames in a bar, we dance around each other, talking about everything and nothing because we're both just waiting to get out and fight again.

The release of the first blow in my stomach is so liberating.

Feel this? This is Arthur's carefully retained hate for this life.

When I'm bending over, supporting my weight on Mr. Eames' broad shoulders, hearing him coughing and gasping against my neck, some guy walks up on us and says he wants to join.

What we are doing, it's on the tip of everyone's tongue.

We just give it a name.

\---

"The first rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club."

There are at least fifty men here, sweating, nervous, in beautiful suits. I have no idea how they got here.

"The second rule of Fight Club is you DO NOT talk about Fight Club."

The shuffling of feet. The pounding of blood. The only real thing left in this world.

"If someone says stop, or goes limp, even if he's just faking it, the fight is over."

No one ever says stop. Everyone wants to die.

"Only two guys to a fight."

I cock my gun. The click echoes from the bare concrete, but everyone's eyes are fixed on the small curve of Mr. Eames' crooked provoking grin.

"One fight at a time."

The skin healing over the knuckles of my hand itches.

"No fights outside of dreams."

The constant buzzing of excitement swells. Single shouts. Everyone wants to go in as soon as possible, and no one wants to be the first. Mr. Eames raises his hands to calm them down, make them listen.

"The fights go on as long as they have to."

Time in dreams passes about twenty times slower. Five minutes here are over one hour under. There is plenty of time for every guy in this room to fight as long as he wants to. To die.

"If this is your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight."

The picture of Yusuf smiling down on us as he presses the button blurs out, and then we're in.

\---

All the men coming here, they are perfectly well-dressed beautiful guys with good jobs, expensive apartments and nice groups of friends. White-collared slaves.

They shoot the stuff in their arms, close their eyes, and when they wake up, they have changed.

This is your fight, and it's ending one minute at a time.

Fight Club isn't about winning or losing. When the fight is over, nothing is solved, but nothing matters.

Those countless, faceless men, they come here to die.

This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time.

After Fight Club, you sleep and you feel real.

\---

When Mr. Eames pulls off his shirt, it's perfection.

It's how real men should look.

I'm here to watch, and that's what I do.

I am Arthur's raging bile duct.

His pants slide down low on his hips and my eyes follow the trail of his hair.

He catches my gaze and smiles before the fist of a beautiful boy who's surely not even twenty years old collides with his jaw, and he still smiles when blood bubbles over his lips.

\---

Sometimes, when everyone is gone and it's only Yusuf in the corner on some lawn chair, fiddling around with the drugs and the device, waiting because he's got nowhere else to go, we go down together.

Just the two of us, but it feels as if I'm watching us from above.

I fight like a wild cat, all claws and bites and scratches.

Mr. Eames fights like a high-class boxing pro. He dances around, his weight shifting between agile feet, his pants clinging to his muscular calves and round ass. His fists are always up, but I can see his eyes, and I know what he'll do next.

Whenever he sends someone down on the floor, he just stands there, looking down on him, his chest moving in fast and deep breaths. Tiny drops of sweat cling to the hair on his chest, and his eyebrows, his fucking eyelashes.

I look up and think fuck God. This is my savior.

\---

Mr. Eames is an amazing forger.

He'll turn into your boss, your wife, your dad, and you can beat him up.

I never ask him to be anything for me.

\---

When Dom calls, Mr. Eames' careful fingers are resting on my split lower lip, probing at the gash, rubbing in drops of blood. My tongue darts out to trace the metallic taste on his skin.

I am Arthur's cold sweat.

When Dom asks me if I'm okay, I can only make small sounds of agreement, but that seems to be enough.

\---

Mr. Eames says, "You are not your cuff links."

Mr. Eames says, "You are not your wallet."

Mr. Eames says, "You are not your fucking three-piece suits."

\---

One time, the owner of the bar, Saito, turns up. We've been using his cellar for weeks now, and he has never said a word. Now he's here and pissing around, and Mr. Eames offers him to go down with him, try it.

Everyone knows this will be the fight we've all been waiting for.

The places for tourists are limited as always, and there's a riot over who gets to go down with them, but Mr. Eames settles it eventually.

Yusuf presses the button and we're in.

I circle around the few frantic chosen ones, finger on the trigger, to shoot anyone out who tries to get into the fight.

It's just me in the dark and the golden glow of Mr. Eames' skin, slick with sweat. He lands a good kick at Saito's knees, leaving bloody stains on pants that probably cost more than the next guy here earns in a year.

If we still had such concepts, Mr. Eames would be losing.

Right before the final blow, before getting another rib broken that will pierce his lungs, Mr. Eames changes.

Suddenly, his body is slimmer, his hair darker, his face tenser, and he's me. I stare at him. At me.

I watch myself dying with a few desperate sobs and a lot of tossing around, back arched up from the floor.

I am Arthur's totally inappropriate arousal.

I see myself lying dead on the floor, blood dripping from my nose, my mouth, my ears, and Saito starts to scream.

Yusuf kicks us all awake, and Mr. Eames is already waiting. Saito scrambles away, pushing and struggling through the crowd of indifferent space monkeys and disappears. Forever.

The hollow sound of Mr. Eames laughing after him rings in my ears.

\---

The first rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club, so there's nothing to talk about.

But the next time Mr. Eames fights, every punch he receives makes me harder and harder.

Our eyes meet. He's not even fighting back.

I am Arthur's complete lack of surprise.

\---

His blood tastes metallic, divine, and I keep on sucking and sucking on his lower lip, drinking the rush of fluid against my tongue.

You can swallow a pint of blood before you get sick, but sometimes it feels like more.

The last couple is still under, all alone without any public because it's late and people have to work their stupid mindless waste-of-time job. Yusuf's leg is already toying with the legs of the two chairs for the kick.

Me and Mr. Eames, we're pressed against a pillar and I can feel the muscles in his biceps shift when he reaches down to cup my balls through my bloodstained pants.

His chest is dirty from rolling around on the floor with this new guy who's far too pretty with his huge eyes and dark hair and the perfect curve of his jaw. I mean, before my fist broke it.

I call him Angel Face. His name is Robert.

I watched them fight for hours, all marble chests and miles and miles of smooth skin, and then I shot Angel Face right between his eyes.

When Mr. Eames asks me what the fuck just happened, I say I wanted to destroy something beautiful.

I'm not jealous, I say, and Mr. Eames smiles.

The next thing I know is I'm lying on the floor with a red bruise on my hipbone and Mr. Eames pushing down on me.

My hands come up around his back to scratch flaming bloody stripes down with my nails, but he's not letting go until I bite his neck.

We roll around, legs deliciously entangled, and I can feel him.

I grind down and he uses the advantage to get me on my back again, and we're rubbing and struggling and pushing and hurting and making unabashed brute grunts.

I need one good hard hit with the edge of his hand against my windpipe, and then I'm coming.

I am Arthur's sudden searing wave of release.

Mr. Eames falls down next to me, limbless.

I say, self-improvement is masturbation. I say, I want to breathe smoke.

In my dreams, Mr. Eames looks just like he looks now.

\---

When you have insomnia, you're never really asleep. And you're never really awake.

\---

And then Mr. Eames is gone. Am I asleep? Have I slept? Is he my bad dream, or am I his?

I'm calling Dom, I'm calling Mal, but the phone is dead.

I'm calling Yusuf, and all he says is, "We've got it under control."

Fight Club means you don't ask questions.

I call Ariadne. She asks me, "Mr. Eames, is that you?" I'm using his phone for this call.

Mr. Eames is not here, I say. Mr. Eames went away, I shout. Mr. Eames is gone.

\---

I go through the stuff he's left behind, which is a lot. There is a plane ticket to Chicago.

If you can wake up at a different time, at a different place, could you wake up as a different person?

I hop on a plane and I fly.

I'm going to a bar somewhere, and people stare at me. Heads turn. Suddenly I am the center of attention everywhere I go. When I'm walking through crowds, all eyes are on me, but I move among them like a ghost.

And then I realize. I'm always one step behind. I'm living in a perpetual deja vu. Everywhere I go, I feel like I've already been there. It's like following an invisible man.

"Welcome to Fight Club," someone says. There are franchises all over the country.

Mr. Eames has been busy.

Everywhere I go, people say, "Welcome back."

\---

We're standing on the rooftop of a skyscraper. The wind tugs at the lapels of the last jacket I own. I shrug it off and let it fall. Watching it hit bottom.

"We'll live forever," Mr. Eames says.

You're insane, I shout. You're a voice in my head!

"No, you're insane," Mr. Eames responds, his arms circling my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder, looking down over the edge. "Maybe you're a voice in my head."

He's wearing nothing but khakis and a white tank top that shows the glowing golden curves of his arms and shoulders, and I wonder if he's ever cold.

This is our life, and it's ending one minute at a time.

The howling of the wind up here sounds like music.

It's just one tiny push at my back, one little step, and I fly.

"Trust me," he says. "Everything's gonna be fine."

\---

I fly. I fly and fly for hours, the wind pushing all breath out of my lungs, roaring against my ears, making tears form in the corners of my eyes.

Deliver me, Mr. Eames, from this dream. Open my eyes. Make me see. Mr. Eames. My savior.

I don't remember the impact.

When I wake up, I am in heaven.

In heaven, everything is white and I can sleep.

God in his white lab coat behind his desk looks down on his form, tugging at his long white beard.

"Mr. Eames?" he reads and looks up. "Mr. Arthur Eames?"

Yes, I say, my voice sounding strange in my ears. That's me.


End file.
